


Tea

by autopsyblue



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Human Names, Kink Meme, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:58:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1240573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autopsyblue/pseuds/autopsyblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>England makes tea.</p><p>Written for a kink meme prompt on hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea

**Author's Note:**

> More or less a description exercise. Also a year old, and I don't feel like editing.

His hands used to be rough, twisted and knotted as if he had slashed off tree branches and stuck them on his wrists, littered with rope burns and inch-long splinters and growing callouses like bubbles in a vat of boiling water. In a rare moment of calm Francis had unexpectedly inspected them and proclaimed them to be very nice but Arthur had only laughed and laughed, tracing with his eye the sun-worn cracks and scars. Now he no longer hauls ropes and flicks swords and cracks skulls against sideboards so the mangled sailor's hands have faded, leaving him with wide, flat palms and smooth, tapered fingers and he could see what that git said when he held them up to the firelight, edges shining in the glow. There is still a slight tan to them, a dusting of freckles but they were pale even against the blond wood of the next log. He chucked it on the fire and sparks flew.

Tea. He needed tea. He stood up and pulled the blanket off his shoulders, leaving it pooled on the ground between the fireplace and the coffee table. The night was bright outside the kitchen window as he padded in, starry with the full moon hanging just below the lip of the window. He slipped his fingers under the handle of the tin kettle (it has a dent in its side where he'd thrown it at his brother's head) and lifted it off the stove, letting it drop to his side. He pried the top of the tea tin off by placing the palm of his hand on the lid and pulling with four fingers. It slid off with a pop, then a clatter as he dropped it on the counter.

He opened he cabinet one-handed and pulled out a mug, fingers curling around the handle in the moonlight where each knuckle stood out against his skin. The drawer opened with two fingers and he plucked out the strainer, the one with a spring whose mesh-ball mouth opened when he squeezed it in his palm. The strainer dipped into the tea tin and closed over a smattering of leaves. He dropped it in the cup where it rattled against the ceramic sides. The thumb of the fist on the handle of the kettle flipped open the lid as with the fingers of the other hand he pushed the squeaky faucet handle sideways, turning on a small stream of water. He placed the kettle in the sink so that the water slid down into the belly of the worn kettle from the mouth, watching the water glow silver. He grinned at the beauty of the sudden thought and a hand came up to brush at the unruly smile.

He shut the water off with a sharp flick of the wrist when done. Grasping the heavy kettle in one hand and the mug in the other he padded back to the fireplace and set his load down on the bricks with a thunk and a rattle. He pulled the poker off the stand and gripped it tightly in his left hand, knuckles white against the black iron, bringing it around to push and pull the blackened wood until the tongues of flame simmered below the iron grill that straddled the fire. With his right he lifted the kettle on to the stand, a graceful movement that was pull and then push, wrist bones shifting under his skin. He sat back with a content sigh, pinching the blanket between his thumbs and their palms, curling the others against them as he pulled it back over his shoulders. The house was silent except for the occasional crackle as the wood twisted in the fireplace, writhing under the heat. He folded his hands into his lap then thought better of it, pulling them out again and holding them up to the light, running his right over his left and then his left over his right. He had a writing callous on his left pointer finger and he could feel where the skin of the middle finger had toughened beneath it. Alfred had a callous on his middle finger where he first learned to write holding his pen incorrectly, and a smaller callous where Arthur had dragged the pen from his hand and re-positioned it against his pointer finger again and again. At least he holds his pen correctly now.There was a thin red line on his left ring finger where he had cut himself on the edge of a book turning the page (and didn't notice until he went to turn the page again that he had bled all over it) and a small narrowing of his finger just below it where a wedding band had sat, but that he had never told to anyone. On his right there was a circular burn mark where the barrel of his gun had exploded across his palm and ripped it to shreds, a raised white line on his pinkie where Gilbert had managed to sideswipe him with a bayonet and a twin one from the base of his pointer to the side of his wrist from his brother. His right ring finger still stuck out at a slightly odd angle where Francis had taken it and twisted, cracking the bones and he had smiled and Francis had smiled back with malice, dark breath on his face. Vaguely he wondered how those scars had ended up so perfectly divided between the two, trailing his left hand across his right and down his wrist, following the vein with his thumb. He started when the kettle whistled and grasped it, thankful for the layer of rubber between his palm and heated metal that nonetheless radiated through his skin.

With his right he opened the strainer into the mug, letting the leaves settle in the bottom of the cup. He set it down next to the cup, fingers uncurling as he drew his hand away. With his left he poured the water, hand tilting towards the lip of the mug in an unconsciously movement. He let the kettle sit on the bricks with a thump, instead watching the leaves color the water with a sigh though the nose. The house was quiet.


End file.
